The Trouble With Paradise Read online

  “Salut.” His gaze settled on her face, which she knew had to be beet red from the wild exertion. Not to mention the no-panty thing. He held a bag of ice in his hands. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fine. Why?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Because you look like you have a fever.” He pushed his way into her room without waiting for an invitation, dropped the ice next to the champagne, then turned to face her.

  She stood her ground in that small space, her skirt brushing her hips and legs . . . and various other parts that weren’t usually so intimately brushed against. “Perfectly fine.”

  He arched a brow, silently reminding her of how she’d just burst in on him in his own office as if there’d been a fire on her tail, so how fine could she be.

  “Okay, not so fine,” she admitted, letting out a long breath of air. “But I’ll handle it, thanks.”

  Please go.

  He was quiet a moment, just looking at her with those eyes that seemed to see far more than she liked. “I was with a patient—”

  “Yes, I could see that.”

  “I think you misunderstood what you saw—”

  She lifted a hand. “None of my business.”

  “Clearly you needed something.”

  She’d needed comfort. Now all she needed was underwear. “No. It was a mistake, that’s all.”

  A silly mistake. So she’d overheard a strange conversation. A really strange conversation. Big deal.

  “Coup de grace, huh?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve irritated you to the final straw, and now you’re done talking.”

  “Oh. Well . . .” Not irritated exactly.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face so that she could hear the rasp of his day-old beard. Then he pulled off his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his hair, which was several weeks past a badly needed haircut, and yet somehow the long dark waves looked right on him. Slightly scruffy.

  Edgy.

  Dangerous.

  Thanks to his fingers, his hair stood up a little, but he either didn’t realize or didn’t care. She voted for option number two, and when he jammed on his hat again and looked at her with frustration brimming from that steely gaze, the oddest thing happened.

  A frisson of heat coursed through her.

  Uh-oh.

  Where was this coming from? She didn’t know, but it was going to stop. He was clearly involved with Sailing Barbie. She gestured to her door.

  With a long look that she couldn’t even begin to interpret, he moved—but not out. He came right toward her, stopping only when he was so close she could see his eyes had black flecks swimming in the flinty gray. So close she could smell his soap, or shampoo, or whatever it was that smelled woodsy and cedary and really quite amazing. Close enough so she could see that although his mouth wasn’t smiling, his eyes were, a phenomenon that did something to her, something that definitely hadn’t happened when Andy had smiled at her, or any of the other men.

  Not that she wanted to think about what that meant.

  “One thing,” he said, lifting a hand to the wood above her head, then leaned in even closer. His long, lean, rangy form surrounded her now, his every exhale brushing the hair at her temple. He had a scar that bisected his left eyebrow, and her finger inexplicably itched to touch it.

  He apparently itched to touch, too, because he stroked a stray strand of hair from her cheek.

  “What?” she asked, sounding as if she’d just run a mile. Uphill, in the snow.

  “The Meet and Greet is in the salon.” His gaze dropped over her body before meeting hers. “You might want to change one more time before you go.”

  “What?” Was that her voice, all soft and whispery and very Marilyn Monroe-like? It couldn’t be. She cleared her throat. “Why?”

  “Because if you’re going to go commando, Cherie, you need a thicker skirt. Something not quite so . . . sheer.”

  Oh, God. She felt her mouth fall open, felt the heat once again claim her face. He could see through her skirt. “Um—”

  A hint of a smile bloomed into a full-blown one, and holy cow. If she’d been attracted to him, the pure heat from that smile, the heat that said he knew exactly how to make a woman melt into a boneless heap at his feet, might have knocked her right off her feet. Good thing she wasn’t attracted to him. Much. “Um—”

  “You say that a lot.” He shifted just a little closer. “Do I make you nervous, Dorie?”

  She managed to snap her mouth shut. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He didn’t make her nervous. Not compared to, say, every other man on this yacht. At least with him, she could swallow past her own tongue!

  But he did make her . . . frustrated. Annoyed.

  Hot.

  As if he knew, he laughed softly and stroked a finger over one of her burning ears.

  And just like that, her nipples got happy. Her thighs trembled. What was happening here? Besides a train wreck waiting to happen. “Good-bye, Doctor.”

  His lips quirked. “Good-bye, Dorie.” He turned to the door, then turned back. “You know, you didn’t strike me as the commando type.”

  “Maybe it’s laundry day.”

  “On the first day of your vacation?”

  She caved like a cheap suitcase. “I wasn’t finished changing.”

  “Ah.” The look he gave her was smug, as if he knew her, knew her type.

  “Hey, maybe I go without all the time.”

  He full out grinned. “Do you?”

  He didn’t believe her, and she pretended not to care. “Yes.”

  At that, he laughed, and after he left, she didn’t move for a long breath. She was being cool. Cool as a cucumber. That only lasted so long; after a minute, when she was sure he wasn’t coming back, she raced to her suitcase and pulled on a slip.

  But not underwear, damn it. No way. She had a point to prove.

  And a life to start living.

  A new application of lip gloss and one self pep talk later, Dorie limped her way out of her stateroom. Out of necessity, she wore flip-flops instead of the heeled sandals, but was still commando. Climbing up a spiral staircase, she found herself at the bow of the ship, all by herself, looking at the last sliver of sun as it sank beneath the horizon.

  Very by herself.

  Leaning against the railing, into the wind, giving herself a little Titanic moment, she wondered at the odd sense of loneliness. Probably if she had Leo DiCaprio standing behind her, she wouldn’t feel so alone.

  Actually, it didn’t have to be Leo. She’d have settled for Baseball Cutie Andy. She bet he never made a fool out of himself in front of a woman. He was always sweet, kind, and loyal. She let herself go with the fantasy for a moment but since her tongue swelled in his presence, she had to be real. Tongue swelling could really pose a problem on, say, their honeymoon.

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement. Unbelievably, Andy stood there, hands in the pockets of his very expensive linen pants, his equally expensive shirt billowing in the wind. Catching her eye, he smiled, and right on cue, her tongue began to swell.

  Damn.

  “Hey,” he drawled, his eyes filled with an easy-going good humor and a huge dose of dazzling sex appeal. “How about it. You ready?”

  Ready? If he meant for that Titanic moment she’d just been fantasizing about, where she would face the setting sun and spread her arms and let him support her from behind as they sailed off into the sunset, then you betcha.

  Maybe they’d go to his room, where he’d slowly strip her out of her clothes, or maybe not so slowly. He’d ravish her, giving her what she hadn’t gotten in way too long . . .

  “It’s already started.”

  Yep, her engine was started, too.

  “There’s food.”

  “Food?” Was she missing something, because—

  “Looks amazing. They went all out for the Meet and Greet.”

  “Oh.” Yes, definitely missing something. Her bra